Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2011 v10n1

What They Tell You

You will never excise want. All evening stock simmers in the dutch oven and ants
          convene around the cat’s dish. What students I have distrust me and

call me ma’am, and the chalkboard is a ledger of fruitless exchange. Through the window
          beyond the desk, the finch sock hangs

portentous but no birds come. I go to bed each night. Insomnia will not save you from
          anyone’s misgivings.

No one will fuck the shy girl’s casing. Look again, and off I go with the Times, newsprint
          heady with desire to mark me, my sheets, my face.  end